


Two Sides of the Same Spoon

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angry Freya, Crack, Fluff and Humor, Implied/Referenced Priapism, Implied/Referenced Spoon Abuse, Kilgharrah did an oops, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Religious iconography gone wrong, Spoons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 05:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10735374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: It's hard enough working out what that blasted cryptic dragon means at the best of times. But when Kilgharrah makes a mistake and delivers the wrong prophecy, Merlin really is doomed to failure. Still, at least this way the Goddess gets to thumb her nose at the patriarchy.





	Two Sides of the Same Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> OK this is very silly and I apologise but I had to write it because it was occupying my thoughts when I should have been doing other things. I blame Kilgharrah. And super thanks to LFB72 for reading it for me. I'll never look at christening spoons in the same way again!

The Great Dragon lay his scaly nose upon his forepaws and gazed into the still waters of the lake with a deepening sense of guilt. He should never have let things get this far. He had never intended for it to work out this way. The Goddess would be so mad at him, he was going to have a devil of a time explaining everything.

Still, he thought. At least I’m not tied up in that smelly old cave any more. Silver linings, and all that. 

To be quite frank, Kilgharrah really didn't see why it was his fault. If the Goddess had wanted her prophecies to be relayed more accurately, She should have found someone under less duress. He'd been chained up under a blooming castle, for Pete’s sake; no wonder he had been distracted. Also, one that was not so sleepy. He couldn't be expected to deliver accurate prophecies just after dawn. Kilgharrah had never got the hang of mornings. No, he couldn’t be blamed. Could he?

Who was Pete anyway? Some other infuriating minor deity no doubt. 

Kilgharrah shook his head and returned his attention to the lake where he had cast his scrying spell. The scene played out upon the trembling waters. As royal weddings went, it was pretty standard, with speechifying and glittering trumpets and finely-decked courtiers and so forth. Ordinary stuff, really. Just your bog standard royal pomp and circumstance. Right up until the whole spoon-related part of the ceremony, when the golden Prince lifted the sacred spoon on high. The townspeople copied him, and so a religious icon was born. Hmm, all right, so spoons were arguably less commonplace.

Although the scrying spell did not bring him any sound, the crowd's lips moved together. “Ooh Aye Ai Boo!” they seemed to say. It didn’t take a genius to work out their actual words. After all, they had been Kilgharrah’s words in the first place. And all that amount of spoon-brandishing, lifting of two fingers, and spoon spinning gave it away.

A spoon as a sacred fertility symbol? It wasn't his fault, but he was under no illusions about who the Goddess would blame. She was going to kill him.

Groaning, Kilgharrah covered his eye with one forefoot and watched events unfold through the gap between his talons.

 

*

_Six Months Earlier_

 

*

“Two sides of the same spoon, you say?” Gaius raised an incredulous eyebrow.

Shrugging, Merlin stirred his steaming porridge to cool it a little, frowning at the spoon as if it would yield up the mysteries of the universe. Delicate fragrances of oaty goodness, mingled with cinnamon and apple, reached his nostrils and he hummed, tummy rumbling.

“That’s what the dragon said!” Merlin stuck his spoon into the bowl and shovelled a heaped spoonful into his mouth, where it scalded his tongue. “Mmmnyidea what he means?” Fanning his open mouth, he looked up questioningly at Gaius, and then back down at his spoon.

“Well, I really am not sure.” Gaius frowned, dabbing primly at his mouth with a tattered napkin. “Dragons are terribly cryptic creatures. I wonder, is he referring to the handle and the bowl? Or the inner and outer edges of the implement?”

“I dunno. Do you fancy asking him?” said Merlin, scraping up another spoonful with enthusiasm. He swallowed thickly and glugged at his watered-down small-beer, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, and belching loudly.

“Manners, Merlin,” said Gaius.

“Sorry.” Merlin waved his spoon. “Anyway, all I can seem to get out of him is spoon this, spoon that. Oh, and something about halfs and wholes, which makes no sense at all. I mean, how can you have half a spoon? What would that be, a _spo_? Or... or... a... a...  _oon_?” Stunned at his own sparkling wit, he went off into peals of laughter.

“It’s not funny, Merlin.” Gaius lifted his eyebrow as he pointed his own spoon at Merlin in mock anger. “The dragon’s comments are a clue as to how to fix Arthur’s current predicament. Now I suggest you stop chortling, and get your thinking cap on!”

“Sorry, Gaius.” Merlin sighed. “I suppose Arthur’s not all that bad. Some of the time.” Plus he was gorgeous, with muscles of steel and thighs to die for. “It would be a shame if he had to spend the rest of his life like this.” _This_ being curled up in bed, refusing all food, and throwing things at anyone who dared to enter. Even Merlin. Especially Merlin. Ever since that witch had hurled a curse at him, Arthur had not left the confines of his own bedroom. Uther was beginning to get suspicious.

Deflated, Merlin poked at the empty bowl. Spoons. Well, every spoon had two sides, he supposed. An inner and an outer side. And if you nested two spoons together, well. The sort of cuddled, he supposed.

But how would that help Arthur to lift the curse?

What had that insane old witch said? Besides cackling and pointing her wizened finger at the prince? She was nearly as bad as the dragon. She’d muttered something about true love’s kiss, the usual stuff, and gone on about halfs and wholes just like the dragon, but—and this was the important bit—absolutely nothing about spoons. Nada. Zilch.

Was the dragon hinting that a cuddle would lift the curse? Would that be enough? A sudden vision flashed in front of him. Of himself as the outer spoon, and Arthur as the inner one. Embracing. Like lovers. He breathed in sharply, coughed to hide his sudden confusion, and promptly choked on his porridge.

“'Orry!” he wheezed, tears starting in his eyes as he choked. “'Oo 'ot.”

“Oh, Merlin,” sighed Gaius. He stood and shuffled around the table, thumping Merlin on the back, until the coughs stopped. 

*

Thanks to a couple of days of bearing the brunt of Arthur's goblet-hurling, Merlin had learned caution. He opened the door to Arthur’s chambers with one foot, and then stepped nimbly aside. After counting not one but two goblets, he guessed that Arthur had run out of ammunition, and stepped inside—on high alert for any other projectiles, just in case.

“Sire?”

“G’way.” A balled up bundle of misery lurked under the covers, with just a scrap of blond hair protruding from one end to hint at its identity.

“Sire? I brought your breakfast?”

“Mmf.”

Emboldened by the lack of any further movement, Merlin stepped gingerly into the room, easing the door shut with an expert toe. He slid the heavy tray onto the table, where last-night’s untouched dinner still sat, congealed and unappetising.

“Sire?” Concerned, Merlin strode over to the window, whipping open the curtains. Outside, the drizzle had coated the paving slabs in a thin, damp layer of slick. “Sire! You haven’t touched your dinner. You haven’t eaten for two days! The King is concerned. We’re all concerned! Won’t you tell me what ails you?”

“I said g’way.” Arthur’s voice was thick and strained, and his face did not emerge from beneath the counterpane.

“There’s porridge!” Merlin said, in a wheedling voice. He placed his hand on the counterpane, and tried to drag it down. It resisted, as if someone was clutching the other side. “It’s got apples in it! It’s your favourite!”

“For heaven’s sake, I told you to go away.” Arthur’s face finally appeared, red and exasperated. Dark circles beneath his eyes hinted that he had not slept well, and his cheeks were gaunt. His mouth turned down at the corners.

“Sire!” Merlin gulped, throat closing in pity at this vision of misery. “Sire, let me help you eat, I’m sure if you just—”

“Don’t you ever do what you’re told?” snapped Arthur. He lay back down on the bed, turning his back on Merlin, tucking himself into a ball, revealing a broad curve of tight muscle across his shoulders. A sweat-dark curl of blond hair curled into his nape.

“Maybe a bath would help?” Merlin sat down on the covers behind Arthur.

“No!” said Arthur, with a vehemence that made Merlin jump. “Leave me!”

Merlin’s fingers itched. He gazed at his own outstretched hands, inches away from the Prince’s skin. Close. So close. He could see every faint freckle, every dark gold hair that peppered those broad, naked shoulders. It would only take a second to smooth that stray curl, to massage away the tension. His mouth felt suddenly dry. Surely, there was only one thing that the dragon could mean. Two sides of the same spoon? 

He blinked, and in the space between one breath and the next, the decision was made.

“I know what you need.” The confidence in Merlin’s voice nearly hid the tremor, the fierce thud of his hammering heart. With one swift movement, he yanked the covers up, making a space for himself besides Arthur’s back. “You need a hug.”

Before Arthur could say anything to protest, Merlin’s bony arms were around Arthur’s chest, his knees nudging at the back of Arthur’s thighs. Arthur was as hot as a furnace. Merlin murmured what he hoped were soothing noises into Arthur’s hair, and waited for the storm to break.

“Merlin.” Arthur’s body was rigid with tension but he did not buck against Merlin, nor push him from the bed. Not yet, at any rate. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You need a hug,” Merlin repeated, wondering. “Like. Um. Spoons. You know. Um. Just. Um. If you want me to go, just say.”

Hugs were easy to come by, in Merlin’s world, the peasant world of Ealdor, where most families slept in a single hayloft, sharing blankets and warmth. The heat of Arthur’s body burned against his chest as he wondered if Arthur had ever done this before, had ever just snuggled against someone, skin to skin, body to body. A simple act of human comfort too often denied to those who were heroic of stature.

A burly arm snaked out from beneath Merlin’s own, more meagre limb. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable moment of cold. Which didn’t come. Arthur gripped Merlin’s hand in his own, and pulled him in closer, his body relaxing into Merlin’s embrace. His body was warm and pliant. Merlin unfolded folded his hand, palm flat against Arthur’s chest, Arthur’s hand pressing him ever closer. Arthur’s heart beat a steady pulse against Merlin’s fingertips as he breathed in, out. In out.

Something small and warm swelled and unfurled in Merln’s chest, blossoming in the shared heat from Arthur’s body. Arthur's skin, the steely flex of sinew beneath skin, overwhelmed Merlin's defenses, too enticing, too thrilling for him to ignore. To his chagrin, his body began to respond in other ways to Arthur's proximity. Merlin shifted his weight, moved his hips away, but Arthur resisted, lifting one thigh and hooking it around Merlin’s using it to bring Merlin’s legs closer. The heat spread now, across Merlin’s face and neck, because surely Arthur could feel it, the way that Merlin’s affection for his prince had grown to overwhelm his own best instincts for self preservation. The evidence was right there, hard and heavy between Merlin’s thighs, and if he shifted his weight just so…

“Did she hit you, too?” Arthur’s voice was husky and hoarse, not quite a whisper. “The witch.”

The sudden rush of realisation made Merlin giddy.

“No,” he whispered back. “No, she didn’t. This is just… this is just me. Um. And... And you.”

“Merlin, please,” said Arthur. He groaned, and the sound ricocheted down Merlin’s spine and deep into his groin.

Goddess help him. He was as hard as a rock. He couldn’t help it. His hips canted slightly and he sighed, the sound barely a breath, gusting against Arthur’s back.

“I think,” said Arthur in a whisper, as if unsure of his own voice, “I think I might need more than just a hug.”

Arthur’s hand grabbed Merlin’s wrist, tugged at his hand where it still splayed wide across the wide fuzzy flat lines of Arthur’s chest, bringing it gently down to where it settled, around the hard leaking line of Arthur’s cock.

Pressing his lips to Arthur’s bare back, Merlin curled his fingers around Arthur’s length and breathed in Arthur’s musky scent. It was dizzying, intoxicating, this closeness. It sent all words, all thought scuttling from Merlin’s head. And all there was left was this want, this need, this breathless desire.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said to the skin on Arthur’s shoulder. “I promise.”

When he moved his hand, Arthur moaned out loud. 

*

Kilgharrah quite enjoyed watching the ceremony, really. The golden firelight shone prettily on the metal spoons that the more aristocratic members of the court lifted aloft, and the reflections glinted on the ripples in the lake like stars. Even the more humble occupants of Camelot were decked out in their finest rags, and their wooden spoons at least would not cause too much damage in the inevitable cider-fuelled brawl later that evening.

And of course, as a dragon, Kilgharrah was fond of firelight. And all things golden. Plus, there was something peculiarly gratifying about inventing an entirely new religious iconography, albeit in error. But he was under no illusions. The Goddess would not be happy. She would manifest soon to let him know just how unhappy. He hoped that she wouldn’t manifest as the cat.

He didn’t like the cat. Too claw-ey. And tooth-ey. And yowl-ey.

Abruptly, something broke the surface of the water, sending ripples in expanding, concentric rings that shimmered with the vision of the torchlight ceremony. Kilgharrah peered at whatever-it-was, blinking. Eventually it came close enough that he could identify it.

A spoon. A damned spoon broke the surface of the lake. Attached to a ghostly hand.

It wasn’t the spoon that made his heart sink. No, it was the hand. He recognised that hand. _Her_ hand. Attached to  _Her_ body. Her fine linen robes didn’t hide the scowl on her face. Even as She levitated towards him, the scolding started. At which point he cursed his excellent hearing - inwardly of course.

“You ridiculous reptile,” hissed the Goddess Freya. “Of all the incompetent, pathetic prophets I have ever had the displeasure of inspiring, you really take the biscuit.”

He groaned and hid his face under his wing. Come back, moggy, he thought. All is forgiven. 

“Two sides of the same spoon. A spoon!” Something jabbed him sharply in the ribs, and he yelped. “A fucking spoon! I’ll be a laughing stock! You really have done it this time. Two sides of the same coin, I said. But, oh, no, you had to change it to a spoon. How the hell did you fuck that up?”

“I really didn’t mean to—”

“I mean, if you had to ditch the coin, what’s wrong with old fashioned swords? Or rings? Helmets, fine. Wings, brilliant. Even some Gods these days go for instruments of execution. But no! You had to go for a spoon! ”

“Look, it was just a slip of the to—”

“Shut up!” she jabbed him again. “This whole destiny has been a complete fiasco. I mean, it was meant to be an epic tragedy, full of drama and pain! With magical swords and swooning maidens and… and… and incest, and patricide. All the stuff of legend. But, no! Oh no, you couldn’t do it could you? You had to go wading in with your size… size… 57… size 57... fucking… fucking claws, and spout on and on about spoons, and the next thing you know they get ideas about garbage like truth and justice and... and actual happiness and such. And talking of which. Honestly. Have you seen them? They’ve been happily fulfilling their destiny on every available surface in Camelot, with nary a thought for hygiene, oh no. Where’s the tragedy in that? Where’s the pathos? Where’s the triumph of hope over adversity? Where, Kilgharrah? Not in fucking Camelot, that’s for sure.”

She paused to draw breath. Kilgharrah saw his chance.

“To be fair, Arthur did have a nasty curse to get over.” Kilgharrah was not going to let all this criticism go without a fight. “Plus, swords and such, really? They’ve been done to death. Such a cliche, darling. Spoons are so much more original, don’t you think?”

“Oh, please.” The Goddess dropped heavily onto the sand by the shore and tossed a stone moodily into the water. “Spare me your excuses. I’ll never be able to show my face in the hallowed halls of the Gods again.”

“It’s not so bad,” said Kilgharrah, feeling a little bit guilty. She looked so dejected. “I mean, replacing the overtly phallic symbolism of the sword with something a bit more… domestic, shall we say. Isn’t that thumbing the nose at the patriarchy? I’d have thought you’d be all over that. And as for the coin business, well, all that capitalism nonsense is terribly _outre_.”

“You’re just saying that.” She sniffed, and rubbed her face with her sleeve. “Because I’m upset.”

“No, no!” he said warming to his theme. “Look!” He waved at the water, where the shimmering vision had become restored. Arthur and Merlin were leading the nuptial procession back to the citadel, amid much good cheer and waving of flags adorned with badly drawn spoons and dragons. “Isn’t that a happy view? Camelot is about to enjoy a new era of peace and prosperity. No more nasty, heteronormative, sword-based iconography. Just lots of gravy and porridge… and… and soup. Soup, My Lady! And blessed spoon-makers, to boot. Lets face it, spoon-makers are a much more deserving bunch than those po-faced megalomaniacs who have dominated the priesthood for so many years.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. They watched for a while as the celebration moved inside, in preparation for the inevitable feasting. “The royal cutlery does look very festive, I suppose.”

“There you go.”

They watched the royal wedding in companionable silence for a while. There was lots of toasting and speeches, and the banging of the ceremonial spoon against the goblet, and so on and so forth. It really was very jolly. Until, that was...

“Right,” he said, a few minutes later, backing away from the shore. “Erm. You might want to turn your back for this bit.”

“Wait, what’s happening?” said the Goddess, peering into the inky depths of the water. She jumped back with a startled cry, hands covering her eyes. “Oh, my Goddess! You could have warned me! That’s the third time today.”

Sure enough, the royal pair were once more fulfilling their destiny, with great enthusiasm. All over an alcove overlooking the balcony. The saucy things. And, oh, dear sweet Goddess. What was that imaginative warlock doing? With that spoon?

Still, thought Kilgharrah, as he scuttled back to his mound of slightly-less-sacred-but-nonetheless-pretty coins. It could have been a lot worse.

After all, it was a jolly good thing that he hadn’t said “two sides of the same fork,” wasn’t it?  
 

*

 

END

 

*

  



End file.
